Chapter 11: The shards glint like teeth.

I crouch on the still-warm tile and start collecting what’s left of Avery’s plate, the echo of Daphne’s slap pulsing in my cheek.

A housekeeper rushes in, eyes wide, but I wave her off.

“Please—just give me a minute.”

She hesitates, then nods and retreats. Even the staff obey the rule of distance here.

I find the fork last—twisted, sticky with chocolate—and drop it into the trash. A smear of syrup darkens my palm. It looks too much like blood.

Breathe.

I rinse my hands, dab my face with cold water, and tell myself the sting will fade.

The slap still rang in my ears.

The sting had faded from my cheek, but the shame hadn’t. It never faded that fast.

I stood motionless, my hand on my face, fingers trembling.

Daphne’s words circled like vultures:

“Kill her. Like you did someone else.”

She knew.

Marcus.

She knew.

It seemed like she knew how many people had held on to me in the hope that I couldn’t save.

She knew how I couldn’t save you, Marcus.

My stomach turned, nausea scraping up my throat, and I didn’t know if it was from the fear, the shame—or the fact that Isaac had stood there and let it happen.

I didn’t cry until I got to the guest bathroom.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just that kind of quiet shaking that feels like your lungs are folding in.

I splashed cold water on my face and stared at the woman in the mirror.

Not the nurse. Not the addict. Not the girl who couldn’t save Marcus.

Just me. Tired. A little cracked. But still standing.

A knock came at the door. Light.

My pulse jumped.

It was a whisper.

“Gabriella?”

Avery.

I opened the door slowly.

She stood barefoot, arms hugging a stuffed rabbit, her eyes red.

“I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

Her voice was so small it barely reached me.

I crouched down to her level. “I’m okay.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No darling,” I forced a smile.

“She yells a lot when she’s scared.”

I blinked.

“She makes it sound like anger, but it’s not. It’s fear. She doesn’t want to lose anything.”

Avery looked like she understood more than she should.

I reached out and gently touched her shoulder.

“You shouldn’t have had to see that.”

She shrugged.

“I’ve seen worse.”

And just like that, she walked away.

I hated that I believed her.

And something about that broke me more than the slap ever could.

—

By the time I got to the office, my palms were dry but my pulse wasn’t.

I didn’t knock.

He’d told me to meet him here.

So I opened the door.

Isaac stood by the fireplace.

And he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

I stopped breathing.

His back was to me, firelight tracing the line of his spine, the curve of his shoulders. He’d discarded his sling—his injured arm hung lower than the other, muscles tight with strain.

A faint scar cut across his side, still red at the edges. His skin looked like something sculpted—hard, lean, covered in old stories I didn’t know.

I should’ve looked away.

I didn’t.

He turned halfway, just enough for me to see the edge of his profile. The lines of his jaw, his chest—every inch of him too real to be untouched. He picked up a tumbler of something dark and sipped it, like the fire and silence didn’t bother him at all.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low.

“I wasn’t rushing to get insulted again.”

His gaze slid to me then—slow, like a touch—and stayed there.

And I felt it.

All over.

He set his glass down. “I didn’t mean for it to come out that way.”

“But it happened. And you did nothing to stop it.”

He didn’t flinch at my words, but something shifted in his stance. A muscle ticked along his jaw.

“I needed to contain the situation,” he said.

Silence cracked through the room like a whip.

He turned fully now, and my breath caught in my throat.

God.

The man was beautiful.

Not in a polished way. Not in the way his magazines sold him to the world. He looked raw now. Real. Like the version of himself no one else got to see.

Faint hair dusted his chest, leading down to the waistband of his slacks. And I hated that my eyes followed it for a beat too long.

“I brought Avery into that kitchen because she was hungry,” I said, arms folding over my chest like a shield. “She finally got to smile. And your wife shattered a plate over it.”

His eyes lingered on my cheek. Something flickered across his face—fury, maybe. But not at me.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m done,” I said. “This house—it feels like a place where happiness gets punished.”

He stared at me for a moment, then stepped forward. The firelight caught the shadows of his body—every scar, every ripple.

“You think I don’t know that Avery isn’t happy? That I haven’t imagined what it would be like to burn this whole house down and start over somewhere clean?”

I froze.

For the first time, I saw real pain across his face.

This place didn’t look like a kingdom anymore.

It looked like a cell.

Beautiful. Cursed. Soundproof.

“I built it,” he said, more to himself than me. “And I can’t explain everything to you.”

His eyes flicked to the fire like it held some answer. But there was nothing in that heat but shadows.

The office felt too quiet now. Like the walls were holding their breath. And so was I.

I stepped closer.

Not enough to touch him. But enough to feel the weight of his silence.

“You don’t have to explain everything,” I said softly. “But you can’t expect me to stand in the middle of a wreckage and pretend I don’t see the cracks.”

His jaw worked.

“Daphne—”

“I don’t work for her.”

That got his attention.

He looked at me fully now, eyes narrowing.

“I came here,” I said, voice low, steady, “because you wanted me to. Because your signature was the one on the offer. Because you said you needed someone like me.”

I swallowed. “I haven’t flinched yet.”

The distance between us shrank in a blink.

His hand came to rest lightly at the edge of the desk. Mine followed a beat later, just close enough for our fingers to nearly brush.

He leaned in slightly, voice a quiet rasp. “Does that mean you already signed the contract?”

I didn’t answer.

But the corner of his mouth lifted—just barely.

The closest thing to a real smile I’d seen on him.

God, it was unfair. That face. That intensity. That restraint.

It felt like the kind of heat that didn’t burn fast—but slow. Deep. Irrevocable.

I tilted my head, lips parting. My pulse climbed.

He stepped closer, his hand rising—not to touch, not yet—but hovering just beside my face, like he wasn’t sure if this was a mistake or a beginning.

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

“Gabriella—” he started.

The door slammed open.

We both jerked back like gravity snapped.